


Poison Blooms and Moth Wings

by Maewn



Series: Lovaas do Vulon Ahrk Peyt [8]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Gen, Murder Mystery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-11-09
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:15:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27292555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maewn/pseuds/Maewn
Summary: In all his years as guard captain, Aldis could safely say that he hasn’t seen anything like this.He nudges the fallen corpse with his boot. “Any other marks?” Aldis asks, squinting through the chilly First Seed rain.“You mean aside from the fact that he’s missing most of his face, sir?” a guard asks, tugging the hood of his sodden cloak further over him in a vain attempt to keep the rain off, “And you know, the thorns growing out of him?”“Besides that,” Aldis snaps.
Series: Lovaas do Vulon Ahrk Peyt [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/445819
Comments: 1
Kudos: 2





	1. Prologue

In all his years as guard captain, Aldis could safely say that he hasn’t seen anything like this.

He nudges the fallen corpse with his boot. “Any other marks?” Aldis asks, squinting through the chilly First Seed rain.

“You mean aside from the fact that he’s missing most of his face, sir?” a guard asks, tugging the hood of his sodden cloak further over him in a vain attempt to keep the rain off, “And you know, the thorns growing _out_ of him?”

“Besides that,” Aldis snaps.

“No, sir.”

Aldis heaves a sigh. “Send word to the thanes. We’ll double the watch, and someone get a cart to haul this poor bastard back to the keep. He’ll need a proper burial once we figure out what killed him.”

“Yes, sir,” the guard replies, hustling off through the downpour that has steadily increased since Aldis had left the gates an hour before.

Aldis stares down at the body; it is a sight that he has become accustomed to seeing- there have been other victims in the past few months, and it is starting to become a concern. High Queen Elisif has set her thanes on the task of investigating them, a task that Aldis is quite happy to leave them to.

Hopefully, they would be able to find the person behind this.

“Gods, this is a mess,” Aldis mutters, silently asking Shor for strength as he turns to deliver orders to the rest of his guardsman.

* * *

“What is _that_?” Rielle Bryling asks, studying the wrapped figure that the guards had unceremoniously dumped on the table before they had summarily retreated back up the stairs and pulled the door shut behind them.

She’s never seen such a lumpen corpse before.

“Some poor unfortunate soul,” Sybille Stentor says, gliding around the table to pull the muddy linen back, “oh my, he’s missing his face, how terrible.” The Breton’s face doesn’t show an ounce of pity; sometimes, Rielle wonders if Sybille can feel anything towards others anymore.

“Be thankful that Erikur isn’t here,” Aldariel Stormborn adds, peering over Sybille’s shoulder, already scribbling notes, “he probably be sick all over the corpse.”

“What are we up to now?” Rielle asks, tilting her head towards her fellow thane, “Eight?”

Aldariel ignores the question, tapping a thorn with the edge of his quill.

“Twelve,” Sybille answers instead, frowning over the thorns, “Hmm, they are literally growing out of him, very similar to the last one.”

“The thorns are new though, yes?” Rielle asks.

“New in that they’ve only appeared in the last two victims prior to this one,” Aldariel says. He sets his notes aside, reaching towards the ravaged face, hand glowing with radiant magic.

Sybille catches his hand, annoyed. “No Restoration magic in my lab.”

“Would you rather we have an undead walking around?” Aldariel asks innocently.

“I know where you _sleep_ ,” Sybille says.

“This is why I have wards,” Aldariel returns evenly. “And I sleep with a Dunmer.”

“She may be fire resistant, but _you_ aren’t,” Sybille says darkly.

Rielle sighs. “Can we _please_ get back to business?”

“Maybe,” Aldariel says.

“No Restoration magic,” Sybille says again.

“Do you want him walking around or not?” Aldariel asks. “The last thing we need is a shambling zombie biting people and spreading a plague.”

Sybille’s eyes seem to glitter eerily in the torchlight, the shadows twisting unnaturally up the wall.

“The last plague was over a hundred years ago, when you were but a child. The memories of such linger not in the minds of the people here. They are more concerned with the remnants of the civil war. And there are other ways to keep a corpse from walking.”

“And that is?” Aldariel presses.

“A combination of-” Sybille breaks off, hastily raising a barrier up as the thorns twitch, beginning to grow upwards, towards the ceiling.

“Shit!” Rielle curses, sidling around the barrier to stand beside Sybille, drawing her sword. “Is this some kind of conjuring magic?!”

“It’s something!” Aldariel snarls, already forming arcane gestures, the air growing heavy with power.

The thorns pierce Sybille’s barrier, shattering it, and she quickly reforms it, wrapping it around the three of them instead of containing the thorns.

Unchecked, the thorns grow greedily outwards, an explosion of blood-dark thorns, that seem to ooze a stinking black fluid.

“Stendarr’s mercy,” Rielle breathes, watching the growth.

The thorns seem to sap all light, all heat, the temperature plummeting, the white fog of their breath easily visible in the dimming room.

Aldariel says something, the air shuddering at the words and white light blooms from his hands, radiant fire flickering out to touch the thorns which shriek, an unearthly, ghastly wail that makes Rielle’s ears hurt.

The thorns dissolve into ash, along with the table and the scant remains of the corpse upon it.

“What. The. Fuck.” Sybille enunciates each word slowly.

Aldariel curses quietly, and Rielle turns to see red dripping beneath the hand he’s clasped to his nose.

“You alright?” she asks.

“Nosebleed,” his muffled voice comes. “Not used to that spell yet.”

Sybille sighs, bending down to examine the ashes. “Do try not to bleed all over my workshop, Stormaire. We have no idea if your blood will react with the ashes.”

Aldariel makes a muffled noise that could be agreement, as he reaches into a pocket, pulling out a colorful handkerchief and pressing it to his nose.

“Any ideas?” Reille asks Sybille.

“Nothing solid.”

“Aldariel?” Rielle asks.

Aldariel shrugs, not speaking.

“It feels...” Sybille pauses, raking one hand through the ashes, “old.”

“Older than you?” Aldariel asks, his voice thick.

“Older than me,” Sybille says, frowning. “I think we should bring in a Conjuration master on this. I am but a master of Destruction and Illusionary magics. I will be of little help here.”

Rielle notes the flash of purest irritation that crosses Aldariel’s face. It’s an expression she doesn’t see too often. Aldariel tends to keep his emotions more in check, especially when dealing with court matters.

“I take it you know a Conjuration master,” Sybille says, “and aren’t too fond of them.”

“That would be correct,” Aldariel says, wiping the last of the blood away from his nose. “But I think you may be right. None of us have the knowledge or skill needed to identify the problem here.”

He sighs, rubbing his temples, “I really hate dealing with the woman, but I’ll contact the Arch-Mage of the College to see if she’d be willing to consult with us.”

“Gaerhart, yes?”

“Yes,” Aldariel replies.

“Why do you dislike her?” Rielle asks.

Aldariel scowls. “It’s a mutual dislike, I assure you.”

“Why is that?” Rielle asks, curious.

“She’s married to a cousin of mine,” Aldariel says with a sigh, “I’ll contact her in the morning, let her know the situation and see what she recommends.”


	2. Morgyn Gaerhart I

Morgyn Gaerhart reads over the letter again. The handwriting is smooth, elegant lines of code, one that she knows quite well by now, so translating the words hasn’t taken her long.

She leans back in her chair, listening to the sound of the rain and thunder against the windows of her small home.

It’s spring, and the fierce thunderstorms have returned to the region, forcing her to reform the wards that keep the area from flooding.

“Morgyn?” the soft voice of her consort comes from the bed and Morgyn turns to find Emrys blinking groggily at her, the blankets pooling about his waist as he sits up.

“Yes, darling?” Morgyn asks.

Emrys rubs his eyes, “Has something happened?”

“Yes, though what exactly it is...I could not yet say,” she says, folding the letter back into its envelope, and walking to the fireplace, tosses it into the greedy flames.

She watches it crumple to ashes then returns to the bed, pulling Emrys back to her side, pressing her face to his neck, listening to the slow thud of his heartbeat.

“What is it?” he asks, idly touching the golden torc that rests at her throat, a mirror to the one he wears.

“There’s been a rather nasty string of murders in Haafingar,” she says, pausing as thunder growls overhead. “One of the thanes of Solitude has written to me, asking for assistance.”

“And will you assist?”

Morgyn sighs, “Perhaps. The murderer has yet to be caught and there has been a new development...”

“What kind of development?” Emrys asks.

“Three victims have had thorns grown out of them, from the inside, and after death the vines have continued to grow, causing strange phenomena—temperature changes and light consumption were among those described,” Morgyn pauses, “Radiant magic seemed to dissipate them, though your cousin was vague on details.”

“That is rather unlike him,” Emrys says, “you’ve seen the letters we’ve exchanged.”

“Lengthy dissertations on magic and its application aside,” Morgyn says forcefully, “He’s being vague on purpose.”

“To get you to go to Solitude,” Emrys says.

“Exactly,” Morgyn huffs.

“You are on sabbatical,” Emrys reminds her. “T’would be interesting research at least.”

Morgyn sighs again, pressing a kiss to his neck, feeling his pulse beneath her lips.

“I’ll need you to rework the runes on my ring,” she says, “I’d hate to spend the entire trip skulking under my parasol.”

“I’ll start in the morning, mistress,” Emrys promises. “Besides, don’t you like the craftsmanship of your parasol?”

Morgyn grumbles something into his skin. She does like the parasol, made of beautifully crafted cherry wood, a rich red oil-paper stretched across the ribs.

“I miss walking under the sun sometimes,” she confesses and she can almost remember the feel of sunshine on her skin, warm and gentle, so unlike how it is now, threatening to burn her in her unlife.

“One day, I’ll craft you a ring with enchantments powerful enough to allow you to walk an entire day in the sunlight if you want,” Emrys says.

Morgyn smiles, closing her eyes against the fierce _want_ of such a fanciful dream. She has lived a long time, seen so many things, wandered so far afield from her homeland—

Sometimes, she thinks, in the dark hours of the night when her beloved sleeps, that mortals were the lucky ones. She should be long dead, buried in her family crypt in the heart of her homeland-instead she wanders the years, only now bound to this place by someone who has carefully gifted his heart to her.

She wonder what she will do when he dies.

_If he dies,_ she corrects herself. _She will change him before death can steal him from her._

Morgyn draws in a breath she doesn’t need, sitting up, twisting the blankets between her fingers.

“Mistress?” Emrys asks.

Morgyn waves a hand, unable to put her thoughts into words.

Emrys catches her hand, pressing a kiss to the palm. “What troubles you, my love?”

“...your mortality,” she whispers.

Emrys hums softly, green eyes studying her.

“Morgyn, I can protect myself, and I am Altmer, we live longer than most,” he says. “You are not invulnerable yourself. Sunlight still harms you, and a blessed sword through your neck will still kill you.”

Morgyn looks away, mouth twisting. He’s not wrong.

“But, we are well versed to danger, you and I,” Emrys continues. “Besides, we are merely going to investigate some murders. What could possibly-”

Morgyn claps a hand over his mouth before he can finish his sentence.

“Don’t say it,” she hisses, “it’s like asking the gods to screw you over.”

Emrys snorts as she removes her hand, “It’s not like they haven’t already.”

Morgyn rolls her eyes. “Just...let me handle any fighting, alright?”

“Of course, mistress,” Emrys purrs, leaning in to kiss her gently.

Morgyn smiles against his lips. “Now get some sleep, darling. We’ll leave mid-morning.”

* * *

Morgyn rises before the sun, having spent the night by Emrys’s side, reading as she usually does.

Sometimes, when the mood strikes her, she will spin wool into thread on the spinning wheel that sits in beside the fireplace.

But her mind had been whirling about, focusing on what little information she had gathered from the letter, and thusly she had delved into research, seeking any hint of what these murders could be linked to.

She needs more information, needs more details, but has nothing more.

It frustrates her, and so she at last leaves her books and notes, and departs the bedroom for the small dining hall.

Bella is already awake, chopping vegetables and brewing tea. “Good morning, mistress,” she says, smiling at Morgyn.

“Good morning,” Morgyn replies, accepting a small cup of tea, taking her seat at the head of the table as was her custom. “Emrys and I will be leaving for Solitude in a few hours, please have rations packed for at least two weeks before then.”

“Of course, mistress,” Bella says, “Will you be needing the tonic as well?”

Morgyn pauses, considering. “Yes, just in case.”

The tonic was one that she’d discovered a year prior, one that could replace a vampire’s need for fresh blood, at least for a time. The Volkihar clan, before their eradication, had been hoarding the recipe in their castle, now held by Clan Montalion.

Bella nods, “It will be done, mistress.”

Indra joins Morgyn before Emrys does, offering her a courtly bow as he takes his place at the table.

“Good morning, mistress,” Indra says, “Sleep well?”

“As well as I can these days, Indra,” Morgyn returns dryly. “Emrys and I will be leaving for a time; you will have stewardship while I am away.”

“As I usually do,” Indra notes. “I will inform the others should they not be awake by the time you depart.”

“Good,” Morgyn says, smiling when Emrys walks into the room, already carrying travel satchels.

“Our bags are ready, mistress,” he says, settling them beside the table, settling into the seat next to her.

“Excellent,” Morgyn says, kissing his cheek. “Did you sleep well?”

“Very, mistress,” Emrys says.

Breakfast is quickly dispensed with, the rations packed away, and last orders given before Morgyn takes Emrys’s hand and leads him outside, waving to the rest of her servants.

The ring on her hand grows cold, a cool wave of energy wrapping around her in response to the sunlight.

Morgyn blinks from under her hood, raising a gloved hand and squinting against the daylight.

“Ready, Morgyn?” Emrys asks.

“Yes,” Morgyn says.

Morgyn wraps her arms around Emrys, closing her eyes and visualizing the place she needs to go.

“Close your eyes, darling,” she murmurs, knowing that traveling in this manner is uncomfortable for mortals.

Emrys nods.

Morgyn braces herself and with but a thought hurtles them between the worlds.


End file.
